Читать книгу The Dark Side of the Street - Jack Higgins, Justin Richards - Страница 5

Somewhere across the moor gunfire rumbled menacingly, strangely subdued in the heat of the afternoon, and below in the quarry where the prisoners laboured stripped to the waist there was a sudden stir of interest.

Ben Hoffa worked in the shadow of the north face amongst a jumble of great blocks of slate and he paused as he swung the ten pound hammer above his head and lowered it slowly to look up towards the distant hills, a hand shading his eyes from the sun.

He was a small man in his late thirties, muscular and wiry with good shoulders, his hair prematurely grey, the eyes as cold and hard as the blocks of slate around him. His partner, O’Brien, a tall, stolid Irishman, loosened the crowbar he was holding with easy strength and straightened, a frown on his face.

‘And what in the hell would that be?’

‘Field Artillery,’ Hoffa told him.

O’Brien stared at him blankly. ‘You must be joking.’

‘Summer manœuvres – the Army hold them every year around this time.’

In the distance, three transport planes moved over the horizon and as they watched, a line of silken canopies fluttered open as men stepped into space to float down like thistledown blown on a summer breeze. The sensation of space and complete freedom was so acute that O’Brien was conscious of a sudden aching emptiness in his stomach. His hands gripped the crowbar convulsively and Hoffa shook his head.

‘Not a chance, Paddy, you wouldn’t get five miles.’

O’Brien dropped the crowbar to the ground and wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of a hand. ‘It makes you think, though.’

‘The first five years are the worst,’ Hoffa said, his face expressionless.

There was the crunch of a boot on loose stones behind them. O’Brien glanced over his shoulder and reached for the crowbar. ‘Parker,’ he said simply.

Hoffa showed no particular interest and continued to watch the paratroopers drift down behind the breast of the moor three or four miles away as the young prison officer approached. In spite of the heat, there was a touch of guardsman-like elegance about the neatly starched open-neck shirt with its military-style epaulettes and the tilt of the uniform cap over the eyes.

He paused a yard or two away, the staff in his right hand moving menacingly. ‘And what in the hell do you think you’re on, Hoffa?’ he demanded harshly. ‘A Sunday School outing?’

Hoffa turned, glanced at him casually and without speaking, spat on his palms, swung the hammer high and brought it down squarely on the head of the crowbar, splitting the block of slate in two with an insolent grace.

‘All right, Paddy,’ he said to the Irishman, ‘let’s have another.’

For all the notice he had taken of him, Parker might not have existed. For a moment, the prison officer stood there, his face white and then he turned suddenly and walked away.

‘You want to watch it, Ben,’ O’Brien said. ‘He’ll have you, that one. If it takes all year, he’ll have you.’

‘That’s what I’m counting on,’ Hoffa said and ignoring the expression of shocked amazement that appeared on the Irishman’s face, he swung the hammer high above his head and brought it down again with unerring aim.

Hagen, the Principal Officer, stood by one of the Land Rovers at the top of the dirt road that led into the quarry and smoked a cigarette, a black and tan Alsatian crouched at his feet. He was a tall heavily built man nearing retirement and a thirty year sentence spent at various of Her Majesty’s Prisons had failed to erase an expression of natural kindliness from the pleasant bronzed face.

He watched Parker approach, aware from the set of the man’s shoulders that something was wrong and sighed heavily. Amazing how difficult some people made it for themselves.

‘What’s wrong now?’ he said as Parker joined him.

‘Hoffa!’ Parker slapped his staff hard against the palm of his left hand. ‘He really needles me, that one.’

‘What did he do?’

‘Dumb insolence we’d have called it in the Guards.’

‘That’s an Army charge – it won’t wash here,’ Hagen pointed out.

‘I know that only too damned well.’ Parker leaned against the bonnet of the Land Rover, a muscle twitching in his right cheek. ‘It doesn’t help matters when every con in the place treats him like Lord God Almighty.’

‘He’s a big man in their book.’

‘Not in mine, he isn’t. Just another cheap crook.’

‘Hardly that.’ Hagen laughed gently. ‘Nine hundred thousand quid is quite a bundle by anyone’s standards and not a sou of it recovered – remember that.’

‘And what did it buy him?’ Parker demanded. ‘Five years behind bars and another fifteen to go. That really must have taken genius.’

‘Poor old Ben.’ Hagen grinned. ‘He put too much trust in a woman. A lot of good men have made that mistake before him.’

Parker exploded angrily. ‘Now you’re sticking up for him for God’s sake.’

The smile was wiped from Hagen’s face as if by an invisible hand and when he replied, there was steel in his voice. ‘Not exactly, but I do try to understand him which is a major part of my job. Yours too, though that fact seems to have escaped your notice so far.’ Before the younger man could reply he glanced at his watch and added, ‘Three o’clock. We’ll have them in for tea if you please, Mr Parker.’

He turned and walked a few paces away, the Alsatian at his heels and Parker stood there glaring after him. After a moment or two, he seemed to gain some sort of control, took his whistle from his pocket and blew a shrill blast.

Below in the quarry Hoffa dropped his hammer and O’Brien straightened. ‘Not before time,’ he said and picked up his shirt.

From all parts of the quarry prisoners converged on the track and climbed towards the Land Rovers where Parker was waiting to dispense tea from an urn which stood in the back of one of the vehicles. Each man picked up a mug from a pile at one side and moved past him and Hagen and half a dozen other officers stood in a group lighting cigarettes

Hoffa took his tea, ignoring Parker completely, gazing towards the horizon where a couple of helicopters had swung into view. He moved to join O’Brien who was watching them intently.

‘Now wouldn’t it be the grand thing if they’d drop in kind of unexpected like and whisk us away,’ the Irishman observed.

Hoffa watched the helicopters drift across the distant hills and shook his head. ‘Not a chance, Paddy. They’re Army Air Corps. Augusta-Bell scout ’copters. They only take the pilot and one passenger. You’d need something a little more substantial.’

O’Brien swallowed some of his tea and made a wry face. ‘I wonder what they make it with – turpentine?’

Hoffa didn’t reply. He watched the helicopters disappear over the horizon and turned to Hagen who stood a couple of yards away talking to another officer.

‘Could I have the time, Mr Hagen?’

‘Thinking of going somewhere, Ben?’ Hagen demanded good-humouredly and there was general laughter.

‘You never know.’

Hagen glanced at his watch. ‘Three-fifteen.’

Hoffa nodded his thanks, gazed down at the contents of the enamel mug in his right hand for a moment and then walked towards the Land Rover where Parker still stood beside the tea urn.

He frowned warily as Hoffa approached and held out the mug. ‘Would you mind telling me what this is supposed to be, Mr Parker, sir?’ he said mildly.

Behind him, the voices died away and Hagen called sharply, ‘What’s all this then, Hoffa?’

Hoffa replied without turning round, ‘A simple enough question, Mr Hagen.’ He held the mug out towards Parker. ‘Have you tasted it, Mr Parker?’

‘Have I hell,’ Parker said and the knuckles of his right hand showed white as he tightened his grip on his staff.

‘Then I really think you should,’ Hoffa said gently and tossed the contents of the mug into Parker’s face.

There was a moment of stunned silence and then everything seemed to happen at once. Parker moved in with a cry of rage, his staff flailing down and Hoffa ducked under it, doubled him over with a fist to the stomach and raised a knee into the decending face.

Behind him there was a roar of excitement from the other prisoners and a moment later, he was on the ground, borne down by a rush of officers. There was a brief struggle and he was jerked to his feet, wrists handcuffed in front of him.

The Alsatian snarled on the end of its steel chain, driving the excited prisoners back, Hagen shouting for order. He got it in the end, turned and came toward Hoffa, a slight, puzzled frown on his face, all the instinct, all the experience of thirty hard years telling him that there was something wrong here.

‘You bloody fool,’ he said softly. ‘Six months’ remission gone and for what?’

Hoffa gazed past him stolidly, face impassive, and Hagen shrugged and turned to Parker who leaned against the Land Rover, blood on his face. ‘Are you all right?’

‘My nose is broken.’

‘Think you could drive?’

Parker nodded, a handkerchief to his face. ‘I don’t see why not.’

Hagen turned to one of the other officers. ‘I’m leaving you in charge, Mr Smith. Get them working and no nonsense. I expect to see some sweat when I get back.’

The prisoners were marched away and Hagen slipped the Alsatian’s lead. The dog moved across to Hoffa, sniffing at his boots, and Hagen said, ‘Let’s have you then. Into the back of the green Land Rover. Any funny stuff and I’ll put the dog on you – that’s a promise.’

Hoffa moved across the Land Rover without a word, the Alsatian at his heels. He climbed inside, sat on one of the benches and waited. A moment later Hagen joined him, closing and locking the rear door.

A small glass window gave a view of the interior of the cab. Parker’s face appeared momentarily, the brief glance he gave Hoffa full of venom. He nodded to Hagen and a moment later, the engine roared into life and they drove away.

As the Land Rover turned on to the dirt road that led across the moor, Hagen leaned across, a frown on his face. ‘All right, Ben, what’s it all about?’

But Hoffa ignored him, gazing past his shoulder through the side window across the moors, his face calm and impassive. In some strange way it was as if he was waiting for something.

Somewhere to the east of them gunfire rumbled again and the brief ominous chatter of a machine gun was answered by sporadic shooting. Hagen glanced out of the side window and saw the red berets of the paratrooopers moving across a hillside two or three miles away. Another scout helicopter drifted across the horizon and the Alsatian growled uneasily. He ran a hand along its broad flank and patted it gently.

‘Only a game, boy, only a game.’

As the dog subsided, there was a sudden roar of an engine in the west and another helicopter lifted over the hillside and swept in towards the road. For a moment it kept pace with them, so close that he could read the code name painted on its side in white letters. The hatch was open and a soldier crouched there looking out, his green beret a splash of vivid colour.

‘Look like commandos,’ Hagen said.

To his surprise, Hoffa answered him. ‘Sibe-Martin troop carrier. They can manage a dozen men and equipment. They’ve been using them in Borneo lately.’

The commando waved and the helicopter swung ahead of them, lifted over a rise and disappeared.

Hagen turned to face Hoffa. ‘You seem to know your stuff.’

‘There was an article in Globe magazine last month,’ Hoffa said. ‘It’s in the library.’

Hagen shook his head and sighed. ‘You’re a funny bloke, Ben. I never could figure you out and that’s a fact.’

Unexpectedly Hoffa smiled, immediately looking about ten years younger. ‘That’s what my old man used to say. Too late now though. Too late for all of us.’

‘I suppose you’re right.’

Hagen reached for his cigarettes and as he got them out, the Land Rover went over the rise and started down a heavily wooded valley. He gave a sudden exclamation and leaned forward. The helicopter had landed in a clearing at the edge of the trees and half a dozen commandos were strung out across the road.

The cab window was pushed back and Parker called, ‘What in the hell’s all this then?’

‘God knows,’ Hagen said. ‘Maybe they think we’re on the other side.’

Parker started to slow as a young officer walked forward, waving him down. Like his men, he wore a combat jacket and his face was darkened with camouflage cream. As the Land Rover rolled to a halt, the rest of the party moved in on the run, tough, determined looking men, each carrying a machine pistol.

Parker opened the door of the cab and leaned out. ‘Look, what is this?’

Hagen couldn’t see what happened, but Parker cried out in alarm, there was the sound of a scuffle, a blow and then silence.

Boots crunched the dirt surface of the road as someone walked round the side of the vehicle. A moment later, the glass window at the top of the rear door was shattered and the young officer peered inside.

‘All out,’ he said pleasantly. ‘This is the end of the line.’

Hagen glanced across at Hoffa, taking in the smile on his face, realising that the whole affair had been rigged from the start and the Alsatian leapt for the broken window, a growl rising in its throat. For a moment it stayed there, rearing up on its hind legs trying to force its way through, and then the top of its skull disintegrated in a spray of blood and bone as someone shot it through the head.

The dog flopped back on the floor and the young officer smiled through the window at them, gently tapping his right cheek with the barrel of a .38 automatic.

‘Now don’t let’s have any more fuss, old man,’ he said to Hagen pleasantly. ‘We’re pushed for time as it is.’

Hagen looked across at Hoffa, despair on his face. ‘You’ll never get away with this, Ben. All you’ll collect is another ten years.’

‘I wouldn’t count on that,’ Hoffa said. ‘Now make it easy on yourself, Jack. These blokes mean business.’

Hagen hesitated for only a moment longer and then he sighed. ‘All right – it’s your funeral.’

He took the keys from his pocket, moved to the door and unlocked it. He was immediately pulled outside and Hoffa followed him. Parker was lying on his face unconscious, wrists handcuffed behind his back.

From then on the whole affair rushed to its climax with the same military precision that had been a characteristic of the entire operation. Someone unlocked Hoffa’s handcuffs and transferred them to Hagen while someone else gagged him with a strip of surgical tape. Parker’s unconscious body had already been lifted into the rear of the Land Rover and Hagen was pushed in after him. The door closed, the key turned in the lock with a grim finality.

There was blood on his face from the dead Alsatian and as he rolled away from it in disgust, swallowing the bile that rose in his throat, the Land Rover started to move, lurching over the rough ground away from the road. Through the side window above his head he was aware of the trees as they moved into the wood, crashing through heavy undergrowth and then the vehicle braked suddenly so that he was thrown forward, striking his head against the wall.

He lay there fighting the darkness that threatened to drown him, a strange roaring in his ears. It was a minute or so before he realised it was the helicopter taking off again and by the time he had managed to scramble to his knees and slump down on to the bench, the sound was already fading into the distance.

It was fifteen minutes later and thirty miles on the side of the moor, when the helicopter put down briefly in a clearing in a heavily wooded valley. Hoffa and the young officer jumped to the ground and the helicopter lifted into the sky again and flew away to the west.

Hoffa was dressed as a hiker in denim pants and green quilted anorak, a rucksack slung over one shoulder and the young officer wore an expensive grey flannel suit. Minus the camouflage cream, his face was pale and rather aristocratic and he had about him the air of a man who has long since decided that life is obviously a rather bad joke and not to be taken seriously.

‘How long have we got?’ Hoffa demanded.

His companion shrugged. ‘An hour – two if we’re lucky. It depends how soon the party at the quarry notice how long it’s taking the Principal Officer to return.’

‘Is an hour long enough?’

‘Certainly, but it won’t be if we hang around here much longer.’

‘All right,’ Hoffa said. ‘Just one more thing – what do I call you?’

‘Anything you like, old man.’ He grinned amiably. ‘What about Smith? Yes, I think I’d like that. I’ve always wondered what it must be like to be called Smith.’

‘And where in the hell did the Baron pick you up?’ Hoffa asked.

Smith smiled again. ‘You’d be surprised, old man. You really would.’

He led the way across the clearing into the wood, following a narrow path through the trees which later joined a broad dirt track. A few yards further on they came to a derelict water mill beside a stream and in a courtyard at the rear behind a broken wall, a black Zodiac was parked. A moment later they were driving away, bumping over the rutted track, finally energing into a narrow country road.

‘Let’s get one thing clear,’ Smith said as he changed into top gear and drove rapidly away. ‘We’ll be together in this car for approximately forty minutes. If anything goes wrong, you’re a hitch-hiker and I’ve never seen you before in my life.’

‘All right,’ Hoffa said. ‘Where do we go from here?’

‘All in good time. We’ve some business to settle first.’

‘I was wondering when you’d get round to it.’

‘Hardly likely to forget a thing like that. Your share of the Peterfield Airport Robbery was exactly £320,000. Where is it?’

‘How do I know I’m going to get a fair shake?’ Hoffa demanded.

‘Now don’t start that sort of nonsense, old man. The Baron can’t stand welshers. We’ve kept our part of the bargain – we’ve got you out. You tell us where the cash is and that completes what we call Phase One of the operation. Once we’ve got our hands on the money, we can start Phase Two.’

‘Which includes getting me out of the country?’

‘With a new identity nicely documented, plus half the money. I’d say that was a fair exchange for twenty years on the Moor.’

‘How can I be sure?’

‘You’d better be, old man. You aren’t going to get very far on your own.’

‘You’ve got a point there. Okay – the money’s in a steamer trunk at Prices’ Furniture Repository, Pimlico, in the name of Henry Walker.’

Smith gave him a look of blank amazement. ‘You must be joking.’

‘Why should I? They specialise in clients who are going overseas for a lengthy period. I paid five years in advance. Even if it isn’t collected on time it’s safe enough. They’ve got to hang on to it for ten years before they can do anything – that’s the law.’

‘Is there a receipt?’

‘You won’t get it without one.’

‘Who has it?’

‘Nobody – it’s at my mother’s place in Kentish Town. You’ll find an old Salvation Army Bible amongst my gear. The receipt’s hidden in the spine. Fair enough?’

‘It should be. I’ll pass the information along.’

‘And what happens to me?’

‘You’ll be taken care of. If everything goes according to plan they’ll start Phase Two, but not before the Baron has seen the colour of your money.’

‘Who is the Baron anyway? Anyone I know?’

‘That sort of question just isn’t healthy, old man.’ Smith shrugged and for the first time, the slight, characteristic smile was not in evidence. ‘You may meet him eventually – you may not. I honestly wouldn’t know.’

The rest of the journey was passed in silence until twenty minutes later when they arrived at a crossroads and he slowed to a halt. ‘This is where we part company.’

On either hand the main road was visible for a good quarter of a mile, a narrow ribbon of asphalt falling across wild and rugged uplands. It was completely deserted and Hoffa frowned.

‘What happens now?’

‘Stand at the edge of the road like any normal hitch-hiker and you’ll be picked up in approximately ten minutes if our man’s on time.’

‘What’s he driving?’

‘I haven’t the slightest idea. His opening words will be: “Is there anywhere in particular you’d like me to take you?” You must answer: Babylon.’

‘For God’s sake, what is all this?’ Hoffa demanded angrily. ‘Some sort of game?’

‘Depends how you look at it, doesn’t it, old man? He’ll tell you Babylon’s too far for him, but he can take you part of the way.’

‘Then what happens?’

‘I wouldn’t know.’ He leaned across the opened the door. ‘On your way, there’s a good chap and the best of British luck to you.’

A moment later Hoffa found himself standing at the side of the road, a bewildered frown on his face, the Zodiac a fast-dwindling noise in the distance.

It was quiet after a while, the only sound the wind whispering through the long grass and a cloud passed across the face of the sun so that suddenly it was cold and he shivered. There was a desperate air of unreality to everything and the events of the afternoon seemed to form part of some privileged nightmare.

He checked the watch Smith had given him on the helicopter. An hour and ten minutes since the ambush of the Land Rover. From now on anything might happen. There was sweat on his forehead in spite of the cool breeze and he wiped it away with the back of his hand. What if some well-meaning farmer drove by and decided to offer him a lift? What was he going to say?

Somewhere in the distance, an engine sounded faintly and when he turned to look, a vehicle came over the crest of the hill. As it approached he saw that it was a tanker, a great six-wheeler, its body painted a brilliant red and it rolled to a halt beside him.

The driver leaned out of the cab and looked down, a craggy-faced man of sixty or so in an old flying jacket and tweed cap, a grey stubble covering his chin. For a long moment there was silence and then he said with a pronounced Scottish accent, ‘Is there anywhere in particular you’d like me to take you?’

‘Babylon,’ Hoffa told him and the breath went out of him in a long sigh of relief.

‘Well, now, that’s a step too far for me, but I can take you part of the way.’

He opened the door and stepped on to a ladder that gave access to the filling point on top of the tanker. To one side was a steel plate about two feet square painted black which carried the legend: Danger – Handle with care – Hydrochloric Acid. He felt for a hidden catch at the base of the plate and it swung open.

Hoffa climbed up and peered inside. The compartment was about eight feet by three with a mattress as its base and he nodded briefly. ‘How long?’

‘Six hours,’ the driver said. ‘No light, I’m afraid, and you can’t smoke, but there’s coffee in the thermos and some sandwiches in a biscuit tin. Best I can do.’

‘Can I ask you where we’re going?’

The driver shook his head, face impassive. ‘Not in the contract, that one.’

‘All right,’ Hoffa said. ‘Let’s get rolling.’

He went through the hatch head-first and as he turned to face the light, the cover clanged into place, plunging him into darkness. Panic moved inside him and his throat went dry and then the tanker started to roll forward and the mood passed. He lay back on the mattress, head pillowed on his hands and after a while his eyes closed and he slept.

At that precise moment some ten miles away, the man who had called himself Smith braked to a halt in the High Street of the first village he came to, went into a public telephone box and dialled a London number.

A woman answered him, her voice cool and impersonal. ‘Worldwide Exports Ltd.’

‘Simon Vaughan speaking from the West Country.’

The voice didn’t change. ‘Nice to hear from you. How are things down there?’

‘Couldn’t be better. Our client’s on his way. Anything on the news yet?’

‘Not a murmur.’

‘The lull before the storm. You’ll find the goods in a steamer trunk at Price’s Furniture Repository, Pimlico, in the name of Henry Walker. The receipt’s in the spine of an old Salvation Army Bible amongst his gear at his mother’s place in Kentish Town. I shouldn’t think a nice young lady welfare officer would have too much trouble in getting that out of her.’

‘I’ll handle it myself.’

‘I wouldn’t waste too much time. It’s almost five o’clock. The furniture repository probably closes at six. Might be an idea to give them a ring, just to make sure they’ll stay open for you.’

‘Leave it to me. You’ve done well. He’ll be pleased.’

‘Anything to oblige, old girl, that’s me.’

Vaughan replaced the receiver and lit a cigarette, a slight far-away look in his eyes. ‘Oh, what I’d like to do to you, sweetie,’ he murmured softly and as he returned to the car, there was a smile on his face.

Hoffa came awake slowly and lay staring through the heavy darkness, trying to work out where he was and then he remembered and pushed himself up on one elbow. According to the luminous dial on his watch it was a quarter past ten which meant they had been on the go for a little over five hours. Not much longer to wait and he lay back again, head pillowed on his hands, thinking of many things, but in particular of how he was going to start to live again – really live, in some place of warmth and light where the sun always shone and every woman was beautiful.

He was jerked out of his reverie as the tanker braked and started to slow. It rolled to a halt, but the engine wasn’t turned off. The hatch opened and the driver’s face appeared, a pale mask against the night sky.

‘Out you get!’

It was a fine night with stars strung away to the horizon, but there was no moon. Hoffa stood at the side of the road stretching to ease his cramped limbs as the driver dropped the hatch back into place.

‘What now?’

‘You’ll find a track leading up the mountain on the other side of the road. Wait there. Someone will pick you up.’

He was inside the cab before Hoffa could reply, there was a hiss of air as he released the brake and the tanker rolled away into the night. Hoffa watched the red tail lights fade into darkness, then picked up his rucksack and moved across the road.

He found the track without any difficulty and stood there peering into the darkness, wondering what to do next. The voice, when it came, made him start in alarm because of its very unexpectedness.

‘Is there anywhere in particular you’d like me to take you?’

It was a woman who had spoken – a woman with a pronounced Yorkshire accent and he peered forward trying to see her as he replied, ‘Babylon.’

‘Too far for me, but I can take you part of the way.’

She moved close, her face a pale blur in the darkness, then turned without another word and walked away. Hoffa followed her, the loose stones of the track rattling under his feet. In spite of his long sleep, he was tired. It had, after all, been quite a day and somewhere up ahead there had to be food and a bed.

They walked for perhaps half a mile, climbing all the time and he was aware of hills on either side of them and the cold chill in the wind and then the track turned a shoulder and below in a hollow beside a stream was a farmhouse, a light in the downstairs window.

A dog barked hollowly as she pushed open a five-barred gate and led the way across the cobbled yard. As they approached the front door, it opened suddenly and a man stood there framed against the light, a shotgun in his hands.

‘You found him then, Molly?’

For the first time Hoffa had a clear view of the girl and realised with a sense of surprise, that she couldn’t have been more than nineteen or twenty years of age with haunted eyes and a look that said she hadn’t smiled in a long time.

‘Will you want me for anything more tonight?’ she said in a strange dead voice.

‘Nay, lass, off you go to bed and look in on your mother. She’s been asking for you.’

The girl slipped past him and he leaned a shotgun against the wall and came forward, hand outstretched. ‘A real pleasure, Mr Hoffa. I’m Sam Crowther.’

‘So you know who I am?’ Hoffa said.

‘They’ve been talking about nowt else on the radio all night.’

‘Any chance of finding out where I am?’

Crowther chuckled. ‘Three hundred and fifty miles from where you started off. They won’t be looking for you round here, you may be certain of that.’

‘Which is something, I supppose,’ Hoffa said. ‘What happens now? Do we move into Phase Two yet?’

‘I had a telephone call from London no more than an hour ago. Everything went as smooth as silk. You’ll have no worries from now on, Mr Hoffa.’ He turned and called over his shoulder, ‘Billy – where are you, Billy? Let’s be having you.’

The man who appeared in the doorway was a giant. At least six feet four in height, he had the shoulders and arms of an ape and a great lantern jaw. He grinned foolishly, a dribble of saliva oozing from the corner of his mouth as he shambled into the yard and Crowther clapped him on the shoulder.

‘Good lad, Billy, let’s get moving. There’s work to be done.’ He turned and smiled. ‘This way, Mr Hoffa.’

He led the way across the yard, Hoffa at his heels, Billy bringing up the rear and opened a gate leading into a small courtyard. The only thing it seemed to contain was an old well surrounded by a circular brick wall about three feet high.

Hoffa took a step forward. ‘Now what?’

His reply was a single stunning blow from the rear delivered with such enormous power that his spine snapped like a rotten stick.

He lay there writhing on the ground and Crowther stirred him with the toe of his boot. ‘In he goes, Billy.’

Hoffa was still alive as he went headfirst into the well. His body bounced from the brickwork twice on the way down, but he could feel no pain. Strangely enough, his last conscious thought was that Hagen had been right. It had been his funeral after all and then the cold waters closed over him and he plunged into darkness.